Plan B

So what's next?

I'm supposed to come up with a plan, right?

Isn't that what we do when Plan A blows up in our faces?

We regroup, we keep moving forward.

I'm supposed to get a job, right?

I should find and update my old resume, register with all of the local temp agencies, start contacting former employers and asking for references.

That's step 1, right?

Or, I should go back to school.

I should drop Amira off at Peirce each day before heading downtown to sit in a classroom full of other 40 something year olds, and begin working on a Master's in something I don't really give two shits about.

That's what I'm SUPPOSED to do, but...

I'm not going to do either of those things.

I've spent the past 10 years doing exactly what I'm SUPPOSED to do.  Putting my family first, putting my own dreams on hold for so long that I damn near forgot what they were. 

I don't want to do what I'm SUPPOSED to anymore.

I don't want to spend every waking hour taking care of someone else and going to bed each night, exhausted by the weight of solely fulfilling others' expectations of me.

Exhausted by the sadness of another day spent not pursuing my own dreams.

That's not the example I want to set for my daughter.

I want her to know that if you want something badly enough, you work your ass off to get it.

You don't settle.

Life is too short to waste one moment of it working like a dog to obtain a career you're not even sure you really want.

I don't have a Plan B yet.

But I know that I want to write.

And I know that I want to be fully available to parent my child 24 hours a day.

I know that I don't want to work for anyone whose name isn't Khadija Jamila Brewington.

I know that I don't want to make a living taking care of anyone whose name isn't Amira Kenya Douglas.

And that's all I got right now.

Me

My kitchen's a mess.

There are empty plastic bags on the table surrounding the tablet on which I'm writing this post.

There are dishes in my sink, trash that needs to be taken out, and an empty heineken light bottle that has yet to be rinsed, dried, and put in the recycling bin.

It's 9:39 a.m. and I woke up 10 minutes ago.

That is extremely late for me.

You see, I'm an early bird.  Before I had my daughter, I was in bed no later than 9:30 p.m. each night.

I'd wake up around 6:00 a.m. every morning, jump out of bed and be ready to face the world within minutes.

But things are different now.  Instead of waking up at 6:00 a.m., washing my hands and immediately tackling this kitchen; putting away the plastic bags, wiping down the table with disinfectant wipes, doing the dishes, taking out the trash, putting away the unopened bottles of Newman's Own marina sauce, and Open Nature peanut butter, I'm sitting on my ass talking to you.

I am 42 years old, a mom, a daughter, a sister, a friend and although school doesn't actually start until next week, I'm already room representative for my daughter's classroom.  And I am SO proud to wear all of those titles but the problem is...I'm not much else.

Lorenzo was the love of my life.  When he got into the fire academy I took on a new role: helpmeet.  On the days he forgot part of his uniform at home, I'd ride the train an hour downtown and bring it to him.  And on the evenings when he came home to us, exhausted from having to run up and down stairs while hoisting 50 pounds of equipment on his back, I kept Amira quietly occupied so Daddy could get his rest.   Lorenzo fulfilling this dream was our number one priority and the day he graduated was one of the proudest of our lives.  Amira and I became the Earth to his Sun, revolving around his schedule, basking in the warmth of his attention on his days off.

It didn't take me very long to forget I'd ever had dreams of my own, until one day, while driving home from Best Buy, Lorenzo took my phone out of my hand and threw it in the backseat.

"You don't need that to take pictures of Maggie's wedding" he'd said in response to my indignation.  "You can use this instead."  And then, from under his seat, he pulled out a box and handed it to me.  A brand new tablet.  "Dude asked if I wanted to get this insured and I was like, 'hell no!' before remembering who I was buying this for and then I told him to give me the highest level of insurance possible!"  I laughed through tears and kissed him on the cheek at this unexpected gift.  "And Dija, it comes with a keyboard too.  So now you can write again."

I may have temporarily forgotten my dreams, but Lorenzo never did.  So right now, I'm sitting in my still-needs-to-be-cleaned kitchen, writing this post before Amira wakes up, before I wash even one dish, before I check facebook, before I hop on the elliptical, before I eat my breakfast, before I begin the chaos of my day.

In good times and in bad, Lorenzo never forgot who I was.

Maybe it's time I start remembering her.

Home

I dreamed about you again last night.

I used to think I didn't dream.  It wasn't until I got to college and took freshman Psych that I learned the opposite was true.  That everyone dreams, some just have no memories of them.  That's how it always was for me until you died.  Now, every so often, I dream of you and while I rarely remember specifics what's left is always the feeling that I was holding you until somehow, you got away.

It was a shitty morning in Cambridge.  It's rainy and dreary here today and I did not want to get out of bed but I pushed myself anyway, pushed myself because I only have a one month membership to Healthworks so I have to enjoy every minute of it.  Pushed myself because now that I'm on Prozac, pushing myself is a possibility again.  Pushed myself because it's what you would have wanted me to do, yet when I got to the gym I still didn't want to be there.  Took the elevator up to the fitness studio instead of walking the three flights of stairs.  Got on the treadmill halfheartedly, instead of putting in real effort on the elliptical.  But by the time Chris Brown finished singing "Party" (the clean version that you would have laughed at me for downloading) I was smiling again.  And by the time Shawn Mendes finished "There's Nothing Holding Me Back" I had picked up the pace.  And by the time I finished listening to Shawn Mendes for the second time in a row, the high had kicked in and I was running. Slowly of course, jogging really, just jogging one minute, walking the next but a calm had settled my spirit and the endorphins were elevating quickly and by the time someone finally got on the treadmill a few machines over from me, I was glowing and sweating and panting and happy as fuck.  And as I walked/jogged for the next 45 minutes, as I watched Jeremy, my virtual trainer telling me to pick up the pace, as I watched the green hillside of British Columbia whiz by me on the treadmill's television monitor, every single cell in my body was singing.  And I wished I had somebody there to share it with.  Wished I could call out to the woman two treadmills away and ask her if she felt this way too. If she hadn't wanted to get her lazy ass out of bed this morning either but now that she was there, running much, much faster and much, much more consistently than I could ever hope to do, wasn't she elated too?  Wasn't she thrilled that she had decided to fight her way through the gloom and doom of a rainy Thursday morning, through her own still lingering depression, and made her way over to Healthworks in spite of it all?

I have a long way to go, babe, I know that.  I'm still digging my way out of the abyss that is clinical depression. But...being home, being back in Cambridge, being back at Healthworks is helping.  I'm healing.  Slowly but surely I'm healing and while I can't imagine living here again, can't imagine living anywhere where memories of our life together don't come at me in a rush the minute I open my front door, for now, for the month of July, it feels really good to be home.  

 

Life After Death

It's 5:30 a.m. and I should be making my way to the gym right now, or eating my favorite yogurt breakfast, or trying to decide between watching 21 Jump Street for the 100th time or a basketball saturated episode of Mike and Mike.  Instead, I'm sitting on my mother's couch, listening to the ticking of her loud ass clock, and watching Amira sleep peacefully on our new air mattress.

You died exactly one year ago today.

I know that I'm supposed to have something profound to say about your passing, about what I've learned, about how we've coped.  I know that I'm supposed to have amassed a bevy of philosophical musings regarding the nature of grief, the path to overcoming depression, and the fragility of life but the truth is, I can't focus on any of that bullshit right now.  Instead one thought keeps running through my mind.

Khadija, how do you want to LIVE?

The one thing I've truly learned this year is that the old cliche is true:

Life is really fucking short.

It's too short not to apologize to those we've wronged.

Too short not to tell our loved ones just how much they mean to us.

Too short not to take chances.

Too short not to fix that which can be fixed.

Too short to waste precious time holding on to that which is beyond repair.

I've lived the majority of my life vacillating between two default conditions: fear and regret.

No more.

Life is too short.

I'm so grateful to God for the years I got to spend with Lorenzo.  He was my life partner, my baby's daddy, my best friend.  He was the kick in the ass I CONSTANTLY needed, he was the annoying voice of reason I hated to hear.  He was my biggest cheerleader and my biggest critic.  He was the therapist I never wanted, and the comedian who refused to get off the stage.  He was a man of God, a man of science and a man of his word.  He was a complete and a total know it all.   A never ending pain in my ass.

He was the love of my life.

Last night, while helping my best friend clean out her deceased mom's home, Michele asked me what I want to do today, to commemorate Lorenzo's passing.  I've thought about that all night and here's what I've come up with.

I want to spend today living and loving fearlessly.

I want to celebrate the memories of our life together.

I want to begin the process of moving forward without him.

Simply put, I want to live.

Daughter

I've always had a fairly crappy immune system.  I used to get migraines as a little girl, excruciatingly painful headaches that could only be vanquished by darkness and total silence.  I developed asthma at around 21, and have had bouts with allergies, sinus infections, vertigo, and bronchitis.  Having Multiple Sclerosis means regular occurences of neuropathy (numbness and pain in my fingers and toes) not to mention the daily injections of Copaxone that I take to halt the progression of the disease.  At best my various illnesses have been minor annoyances, at worst, they've been painful and life altering but like every single mother I know, I would gladly endure all this and more if I could spare my daughter one minute of pain. Because as shitty as it is to be sick, nothing hurts more than watching your child suffer.

Over the past 8 years she's been called Amira, Mira, Mirabella and Poopy but Lorenzo only called his child by one name: "Daughter".

"Hi Daddy!"

"Hi Daughter!"

"Where are we going today, Daddy?"  Amira would ask from the backseat of our car, smiling at the answer she knew was about to come.

"To bootyland!"  He'd reply and I'd shake my head in mock disgust, watching those two nuts scream with laughter at their oldest joke.

They'd argue about who could eat the most bean laden nachos.

They'd embarrass the hell out of me by singing, "Commas After My Commas" in public, and at the tops of their lungs.

When she wasn't looking, Lorenzo would sneak up behind her, scoop her up, and plop her down into an empty laundry basket.

When he was up late, eating cereal in bed, she'd crawl in beside him to watch Family Guy and American Dad and all the other shows I forbade her to watch before falling into a peaceful sleep on her Daddy's chest.

Daughter.

Children are resilient.  Amira goes to school every day and afterwards, she plays in the park with her friends.  She goes to hip hop and theater classes, movies and museums but every, single night she tells me how much she misses her father.  How she wishes he could come back to us.  She misses going to Home Depot and Whole Foods with him. She misses our trips to Vegas.  She misses Lorenzo sneaking bites of her black beans when she isn't looking.

She misses her Daddy.

And there's nothing I can do to fill this void.

My Big Fat Ass Explored

I love working out.

Always have.

I love walking uphill on the treadmill, going backwards on the elliptical and lifting light weights at home during NFL Insiders.  I love walking home after dropping my daughter off at school, music blasting, sunshine warming my face.  Nothing relaxes me more than a good workout.

Except for potato chips of course.

Lots and lots of potato chips.

Oh, and wine.

And Amstel Light.

And countless hours of Words With Friends while simultaneously watching ESPN.

And that is how I've gotten through the past ten months.

And how I've managed to gain so much weight.

Lots and lots of weight.

More weight than when I was diagnosed with MS.

More weight than when I was growing a seven pound, seven ounce human being inside of me.

OH MY GOD, SO MUCH WEIGHT.

And if I don't start reigning it in now, I'm going to end up like one of the women from my all time favorite reality show, My 600 Pound Life.

The ones who need a team of firefighters and a broken down wall to extract them from their homes.

I have two choices. I can continue down this path to a land of morbid obesity and depression, or, I can cut the shit, deal with my emotions, grieve my loss like a normal, healthy human being and start to lose this weight.

I'll go with option two.

Wish me luck.

 

The Green Couch

It started with tingling in my fingers and toes.

I was 24 years old and living in Los Angeles with one of my girlfriends.

And I was the healthiest I'd ever been in my adult life.

I had a job as an online customer service rep at an office in downtown L.A.  After work, I'd walk the 45 minutes back to my apartment, change into my workout clothes, and go straight to the gym.  Five days a week.  I began reading about vegetarianism and was slowly incorporating more meatless foods into my diet.  Having left all of my old drinking buddies in Boston, I cut WAY back on the alcohol and weed and didn't even miss 'em.  As lonely as I often was, I was happy.

Until my fingers and toes started tingling and I couldn't figure out why.

After a few weeks of these symptoms I began to develop a low level of panic that was with me round the clock.  And then, one day, I had a seizure at work.  Two days later I was diagnosed with relasping remitting Multiple Sclerosis.  I knew absolutely nothing about MS except that the only other person I knew who had this disease was confined to a wheelchair.  With no other examples around me, I assumed that was my fate as well.

I moved back to Boston the day after my diagnosis.

And fell apart.

I'm blessed enough to have had the same best friends my entire life.  Within a year of moving back home, I left my mother's house and moved in with one of my lifelong girlfriends, Maggie.

Originally from Portugal, Maggie didn't come to our school until 6th grade but when she did, I was instantly enamored with her.  She had endless amounts of energy.  She was bigger than life.  While I shyly stayed on the outskirts of whatever recess activity was taking place at hoyt field that day, Maggie played sports with the boys like she was born to do nothing else.  She'd go home with ripped jeans and dirty knees and a grin on her face that let me know she didn't care about such trivialities.

She was fearless.

We did everything together.  Rode bikes together after school, went to the mall together on weekends, and after my diagnosis, she sat with me on her green couch for MONTHS and let me cry.

Eventually, I began to put my life back together again. I started seeing a psychiatrist who put me on antidepressants, taught me to meditate and bore witness to my pain, week after week, in her tiny closet of an office.

Amazed at the way therapy was helping me heal myself, I went back to school and studied psychology.

I found a job I adored, rejoined the gym, and became a full-fledged vegetarian.

Several years later, when my father died, I was grateful for having had the experience of being diagnosed with MS.  This time around, I knew exactly what to do.  Go straight to therapy, keep working out, get back on Celexa should the depression become overwhelming again. Journal, talk to my friends and family. Don't even try to go it alone.

And together, my family and I got through the loss.

But losing Lorenzo has been an entirely different experience.  For the first time since my diagnosis, I fell apart again.  For weeks I only got off of the couch for Amira.  I'd get up to take her to school, get up to pick her back up again. Get up to take her to swim class, or hip hop, or drama or to the museum.  But when I wasn't getting up for Amira, I wasn't getting up at all.  I no longer had the physical energy to walk the two feet from my couch to my ellipical machine, let alone actually go to the gym.  I drank lots of wine and ate LOTS of potato chips.  I watched ESPN non stop.  But it still took me a solid ten months to realize that I needed help again.  Three weeks ago I was on the phone with a complete stranger, when I began to cry and I couldn't stop.  I called my doctor right away and he greeted me with a hug, a referral to the therapist in his office, and a prescription for prozac.

And it's working.  In the three weeks since that breakdown/breakthrough I've started working out again.  Started eating salad again.  Started feeling like myself again.  But I know that I'm at the beginning of a really long journey.

I have to come up with a whole new life for myself and for my daughter and I have NO CLUE where to start.

And here's the thing...I'm not supposed to be writing this post right now.

My plan was to create a brand new blog AFTER I "got over" the pain of losing Lorenzo.  I wanted to be the "after" photo in all of the before and after makeover stories we see on tv and in the magazines.  You know the ones.  Girl meets boy, girl and boy fall in love.  Girl sits on her ever increasing ass for ten months after boy is killed by piece of shit drunk driver and girl no longer knows what to do with herself so she eats and drinks and watches tv to numb herself from the pain.  Well, I was going to start a blog AFTER this phase had ended.  AFTER I had gotten all better and could be a shining example to others that there is in fact life and joy and happiness AFTER your entire world has ended.

But that blog is bullshit.  Who gives a shit about the after?  Maybe, just maybe, somebody out there needs to hear my story NOW.  Maybe somebody needs to hear about what a struggle it is to get up day after day, knowing you will never hear your partner's voice thundering down the hallway ever again.  Maybe somebody out there is going through this too and we can go through it together.  We can get off of the green couch together, just like Maggie and I did almost 20 years ago when I was just diagnosed and was more afraid of a wheelchair than I was of death.

I'm no longer interested in the AFTER anymore.  I'm interested in the now.  I'm interested in today.  I'm interested in finding a way off of the couch and sharing my story with you because today's the day I have.  Not tomorrow.  I'm not the after photo, I didn't lose Lorenzo and become so inspired by his legacy that I became a raw foods, vegan, marathon runner with 10% body fat.  No, I lost Lorenzo and couldn't get up for ten months but I'm here now.  And I'm inviting you to go on this journey with me.